


Special News Bulletin: Vicious Criminals’ Robbery Attempt Thwarted By Vigilant, Devoted Husband

by EnduringParadox



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Also David is a BIG man, Alternate Universe - Western, Diarmuid and David are that couple that's disgustingly in love, Fluff, Former Outlaw!David, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Preacher!Diarmuid, Reporter!Rua, Romance, playing fast and loose with history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25846729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: Western AU.Rua, a reporter, meets an unlikely couple on an otherwise dull train ride: Pretty, gentle preacher Diarmuid and his very large, intimidating husband, David. Then some outlaws try to rob the train and its passengers, and Rua gets an idea of exactly who David is and just how much he loves his husband.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 14
Kudos: 41





	Special News Bulletin: Vicious Criminals’ Robbery Attempt Thwarted By Vigilant, Devoted Husband

**Author's Note:**

> A Western AU based on some Discord discussion and art.
> 
> Thanks to Wikipedia for the grace that Diarmuid says, because I certainly don't know any.
> 
> (Google) Translated Irish dialogue at the end.

It’s a perfectly normal train ride, which is to say that it is a rather dull affair.

There’s still a good hour before the train pulls into his station and Rua’s already finished his book. There’s not much to stare at outside the window. Open plains with grass the color of straw blowing in the wind, a tree dotting the landscape here or there, the occasional small town in the distance with men and women on horseback going about their daily routine.

Perhaps exciting to a newcomer, but Rua has seen these sights many a time before. In an attempt to stave off boredom on his trip back to his newspaper’s office he observes the other passengers, his keen eyes noting any and all quirks.

There’s a group of four traveling together. An elderly woman, a younger woman who is most likely her daughter seeing as how they share the same nose, and two boys, the younger woman’s sons. One is seated next to his grandmother and the other squirms in his mother’s lap. The mother dozes and the grandmother fans herself, sighing about the heat. She occasionally turns a sharp eye to the boys to see if they’re behaving, but when she isn’t looking the two children make faces at each other and giggle.

A trio of young men plays cards together, seemingly for money, because they quiet as soon as the conductor passes by and scrutinizes them. As he walks away they lean in conspiratorially and get back to the game. An older couple, a smartly dressed gentleman with an impressive mustache and his wife, clad in ruffles and lace and a fashionable bonnet, huff and mutter at the young men’s’ antics.

At the next stop a few more passengers make their way into the rail-car. Rua starts when what can only be described as a bear wearing people’s clothing stalks into the train car and looks around for a free seat. The two small boys gaze at him in awe—rightly so, because he’s absolutely enormous—but the trio of young men, on the other hand, stare wide-eyed at the pretty young man whose hand he holds firmly in his.

There is a free seat directly in front of Rua. The couple spots it and settles in after a brief discussion over who will sit closest to the window.

“Go ahead, my love,” the younger and much smaller of the couple offers with an impish smile, “You’ll block the sun from my eyes.”

His partner snorts and sits, gently tugging the young man into the seat beside him.

Rua’s seen a lot of strange things in his time—seeks them out, in fact, because that’s what reporters do—but this one honest to God puzzles him. It’s said that opposites attract, but this takes it to the extreme.

The young man has the bearing of someone of a gentle upbringing, slight and pale and spattered with freckles, a mop of curly brown hair, huge brown eyes with long lashes, all wrapped up in a clean, neat, white collared shirt and dark blue trousers. The only things worn about him are his boots and the man beside him.

Numerous descriptors come to mind. The young man’s partner is broad, scarred, grizzled. A mountain man, perhaps? He certainly appears uncomfortable in his button-down shirt and dusty trousers, but that may simply be because if he moves the wrong way the seams might just burst; he’s all rough muscle. His head, his face, his arms, and what Rua can see of his chest are all covered with thick, black hair. There’s a dark green bandana around around his neck, clean and carefully tied, no doubt by his partner.

The couple sits pressed together, the young man resting his head on a broad shoulder, their hands intertwined, fingers laced. Their matching gold wedding bands glint in the sunlight that seeps through the train’s window. The younger of the couple appears to be daydreaming, his eyes half-closed as he leans against his husband. His grizzled groom notices Rua’s less than surreptitious observation and glares.

When he speaks, his voice is harsh, strained, like he’s forcing the words from his throat. “You got something you wanna say?” There’s a kind of drawl there, hidden behind the rasp.

Rua clears his throat. “Pardon me,” he says, “But how long have the two of you been married? If you don’t mind me saying, you’ve both that besotted glow of a pair of newlyweds.”

A pleased blush spreads across the young man’s face. He pats his husband’s knee. “Oh, that’s so sweet of you to say. A little over three years now, David?”

“Thereabout,” the grizzled man rasps in that voice as rough and harsh as the rest of him. _David_ fixes Rua with a suspicious stare and tugs at the bandana tied around his neck with a finger.

But his pretty husband chatters on. “We’re not quite newlyweds anymore. I’ve an aunt—well, she’s a friend’s mother, but I’ve known her for a very long time, so she’s like an aunt, to me—but she told me that it’s around _two_ years when you start getting tired of one another. ‘The shine wears off,’ she said. Well, I’m not sure about _her_ marriage, but I know I only love David more and more every day.” Which is a disgustingly sappy sentiment, in Rua’s opinion, but the older man colors slightly underneath his facial hair.

“Diarmuid…” he says and looks at his husband with the expression of a man who’s seen the starry night sky over the prairie for the first time, all awe and admiration and disbelief.

David and Diarmuid. The young man’s a fellow Irishman, then. By his lack of accent most likely born here, an immigrant’s son. “Deartháir,” Rua says, light and teasing, “Cad fear a phós tú.”

Diarmuid smiles with delight. “Tá an t-ádh orm,” he replies. Then, in English, “Might we know your name, sir?”

“Rua,” he replies, “I’m a reporter for the _Silverton Star_.”

“I’m Diarmuid,” Diarmuid says, “And this is my husband, David. We’re traveling back to my father’s to help him with his ranch. I’m a preacher by training, but, well—perhaps I’ll be better at farming and caring for the livestock.”

David, who had been staring out the window as Diarmuid and Rua spoke, turns to his husband and sharply says, “You’re a fine preacher. You’d get the Devil himself to beg God for forgiveness.”

“My love, you think too much of me,” Diarmuid murmurs, squeezing David’s hand. To Rua, he says with a shrug, “I’ll admit, I’m not one for fire and brimstone speeches. Frightening people to God’s side is not the same as accepting Him into your heart— _Oh_!”

The train-car lurches as the wheels suddenly still; they screech against the rails, sparks flying as the train slows to a stuttered stop. Rua holds on to his seat with one hand and his bag in the other. Diarmuid nearly pitches forward but his husband’s arm shoots across his chest so that he merely bounces back into his seat, surprised but unharmed. David himself is like an anchor; he doesn’t move at all except to fret over Diarmuid.

He cups the young man’s cheek in a massive hand. “Are you alright?” he asks.

Diarmuid leans into his touch. “I’m okay. But what’s happened? Why have we stopped?”

Rua glances around. The other passengers are just as startled and confused. Where was the conductor, or the guards, or any of the railway employees? “Did we hit something? One of the front cars might’ve—derailed, maybe?”

David shakes his head. “We’d have known if that had happened. Someone’s gone and—“

The smartly dressed couple squawk in surprise as the train-car door slams open. Two men stride in, faces covered, revolvers in hand.

An honest to God train robbery. And here Rua had thought this would be a typical train ride. From the clamoring behind the two outlaws, he can tell that there are more of them in the other train-cars. Two men—they’re outnumbered, yes, but Lord, only the trio of gamblers and David would truly give them any trouble, and the robbers quickly come to that conclusion as well. One cocks and aims his gun at the back of one of the gambler’s heads, so that his two friends immediately put their cards down and their hands up. The other robber points his revolver squarely in the face of a glowering David. He holds out a linen sack.

“Valuables in the bag,” the man barks, “Everything you got.”

Rua reaches for his wallet with a sigh and removes the bills. The outlaw narrows his eyes at him. “Everything, I said. Wallet too.”

“Need my pen as well?” Rua asks, irritated.

He chuckles. “Couldn’t hurt.” After Rua places his fountain pen into the sack with a little more force than necessary, the man turns back to David and Diarmuid. He eyes the latter’s figure with an obvious leer. “Alright, gorgeous, let’s have that pretty gold ring from your finger, now.”

The young man has his own wallet in hand, waiting to put it in the bag, but at the robber’s words he looks up with large, pleading brown eyes. “Sir, this is my wedding ring. Take anything else, but let me keep this, please.” He neither flinches nor gasps when the man shoves the gun in his face, only pales a little, one hand clutching his wallet and the other pressed to his heart.

“You want to make your husband a widower?” the man asks. Said husband makes a noise that usually heralds the time when a bullfighter should get out of the way lest he be gored by an angry bull’s horns.

That was a bad move, Rua thinks. David isn’t going to like that.

And he’s proven right when David abruptly stands and pushes himself in between Diarmuid and the revolver, face darkening with fury.

“Don’t you _dare_ threaten him,” he growls, “Don’t you fucking touch him.”

The mother and grandmother, shaking and clutching the boys to themselves, still gasp at the expletive and cover the children’s ears.

David was large before, but now, filled with barely contained rage, he suddenly seems enormous, looming over the robber, whole body tense like a bear trap ready to snap.

But the revolver seems to have given the outlaw a great deal of bravery. Rua can’t see under the bandana covering his face, but he can hear the sneer in his voice. “Going to be a hero, big man? Come on, then. We’ll see how many shots it takes to put you down.”

How many are in the revolver? Rua wonders. Shit. Five or six. Hell, that many would fall even David at close range.

Diarmuid places a hand on the small of his husband’s back. “My love, please, sit back down. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“He said he’d kill you,” David replies, sounding incredulous. “I’m supposed to let that go?”

“Please, sit down next to me—“

The robber interrupts, “Better listen to him, _love_ —“

David whirls around on him, all constraint lost. “ _Shut the fuck up when my husband’s talking_.” He looks like a beast, sounds like something hunting you down in the woods at night. The robber's courage fails; he breaks out into a nervous chuckle and actually takes a step back in the face of the man's anger.

His co-conspirator turns away from the trio for a moment and asks, “What the fuck you doing? Shoot ‘em if they don’t—“

The gamblers strike. The one with the gun to the back of his head swivels and grabs the arm holding the revolver, while the other two rush forward to try and wrestle the the weapon from his hand. The outlaw’s finger is still on the trigger. In a panic, he fires wildly.

 _Bang!_ The two women shield the children, who scream at the noise. _Bang!_ One of the train’s glass windows shatters. _Bang!_ The outlaw elbows one of the gamblers in the face with a sharp crack and he falls to the floor, clutching his nose. _Bang!_ Another of the trio scrambles back, clutching his shoulder, cursing, “Christ alive!” His friend crawls to his side, pressing down on the wound.

Rua crouches down between the seats, watching the chaos unfold. Four—that was four bullets fired. He’ll have two more at the most. Plus the other man’s—oh, no, perhaps not, Rua amends, as David takes advantage of the other outlaw’s surprise and tackles him. The second revolver skitters across the floor like a stone skipping along a lake's surface. It ends up at the feet of the smartly dressed gentleman and his wife with the fashionable hat. She grabs it with a trembling hand and shoves it in her purse, snapping it shut with a _click_.

The would-be robber grabs at David. His hand claws at his face, his neck. The man’s nails rake down David’s jaws and hook onto his bandana, yanking the fabric down, revealing a large scar that circles around his throat.

Rua’s eyes widen in shock. The man’s been _hanged_. That certainly explains his voice. It might even explain the scars. Was he some kind of criminal? Not some sort of wild mountain man, then—an _outlaw_. One married to a _preacher_ , of all things. But what was it David had said? That Diarmuid could bring the Devil back to God?

His thoughts are interrupted by Diarmuid’s screams. David’s got one muscled arm around one man’s throat, choking the life from him, while the other is attempting to free his compatriot. It’s too risky to shoot at David—he might hit his fellow outlaw in the struggle, and so he takes the revolver and whips David once—twice—across the face, spattering the floor and seats with a spray of blood from his lips and nose.

The sight of David’s blood sends the young man into a panic. He loses both his composure and his English. “A thiarna déan trócaire!” Diarmuid wails. “Mo grá! Mo grá—Stop it, don’t hurt my husband!“ He scrabbles at the man’s shirt in an attempt to pull him away from David and the outlaw just shoves him back with a sneer. Diarmuid stumbles back and onto the floor with a cry of pain. “ _Ow!”_

“You’re fucking _**dead**!_” David roars. He drops the man in his arms to the ground where he lays breathing but quite still, an alarming shade of purple. The robber with the revolver barely has time to turn and raise it, finger on the trigger, before David's on top of him. David’s fist hitting the man’s face makes a noise like a plank of wood hitting a piece of ripe fruit.

The sound makes Rua wince. He helps Diarmuid to his feet. “An bhfuil tú ceart go leor?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” the young man says, a little dazed, “Thank you, Rua. Oh, _David_!”

The preacher’s husband has the assailant on the floor, hands around the man’s neck. He’s shouting more curses in his rough voice, his face a bloody mask of rage. “Fucking told you all, didn’t I? _Didn’t I?_ Think you can threaten my husband? Hit him? _Put your filthy fucking hands on him?_ ”

Beneath him, the robber breaks out into strangled sobs. “M’sorry—“ The man gasps. “So. Sorry—“

Diarmuid scurries over and places a small hand on David’s broad back. “David, let him go, please. I’m fine, my love. Come now, leave him to the sheriff.”

"He hurt you."

“He startled me, is all,” Diarmuid murmurs, “I’m okay. I promise. Let’s leave them—the both of them—to the authorities, yes? Please, David? Let me look at your face. You’re bleeding and I’m frightened.”

This last plea has David’s eyes flit to the young man’s worried face. He pushes himself up and off the robber—who’s apparently found God in the meantime because his eyes are screwed shut and he’s mumbling half-formed prayers—and embraces his husband.

Rua simply can’t believe how large David is. He dwarfs the young preacher; David’s got a head and a half on Diarmuid. Nevertheless, his voice is small as he rubs Diarmuid’s back. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“My love, you've _never_ scared me. I was just so worried that you’d get hurt, and look, you _have_. Oh, no, your face is swelling up, _my poor_ _David_ —“

There’s two men half-dead on the train car floor and Diarmuid’s cooing and fussing over the brute that choked them to unconsciousness with his bare hands. Rua’s fairly certain at least one of the robbers got hit hard enough to forget his childhood. By God, what strength.

The other passengers watch with a kind of wary fascination as Diarmuid stands on his tiptoes to kiss his husband’s face, which has gone mottled with both bruises and blush.

An odd pair, Rua thinks, but one obviously very much in love.

* * *

The conductor and engineer had managed to take down one of the outlaws, the sheriff and his deputies two more, and David and the gamblers’ efforts made five all together. No casualties. A few injuries, the young man shot in the shoulder being the most serious, along with scraped knuckles and David’s bloody face.

Diarmuid stands with his arms around his husband’s neck so that David must bend down slightly to hold him and, most interestingly, so that he hides the man’s scar as he buries himself in between David’s neck and shoulder. The sheriff attempts to question David, who responds mainly in nods and grunts as he strokes Diarmuid’s back.

Rua comes to their rescue. “Here, now, leave them be a moment. They’re in shock. Those criminals threatened and struck the young man there.”

At that Diarmuid lifts his head and, to Rua’s amusement, sniffles and stares forlornly at the lawmen with big, watery eyes and tears clinging to his lashes and a quivering lip, the very picture of distressed beauty.

Preacher and farmer. Rua smirks. The young man would probably make a decent stage actor if he had the inclination for it. The lawmen apologize profusely for their insensitivity and turn to question Rua instead. Behind them Diarmuid quickly snatches up David’s green bandana, gives him a quick peck on the cheek, and ties it around his neck—concealing the scar once more—before resuming his position in his husband’s arms.

All in all it’d make a decent story. A reporter caught up in a train robbery, a man protecting his love, the fight over the guns.

“May I write about this?” Rua asks when they get to the station. Usually he wouldn’t bother to make the request but he figures it would be better to ask in this instance, when one of the subjects is a man who survived a hanging and could turn a man’s face into jelly with his fists if he were so inclined.

Diarmuid says, carefully, “I’m sure a story about a train robbery would be quite popular with your readers.”

“A _foiled_ train robbery,” Rua says, “Stopped by a very loyal, protective husband. That’ll certainly get the young ladies and gentlemen swooning over the pages.”

The young man adjusts his husband’s bandana ever so slightly. “We can’t stop you from writing anything,” he says, as if David couldn’t just snap Rua’s neck right then and there, “But we’d be very much obliged if you—kept our names out of it. And a few certain details.” With one last tug to the bandana around his husband’s neck, Diarmuid shoots the reporter a pointed look.

Rua nods. “Got it. Keep your names out along with any…identifying marks. Anonymity, I promise.”

* * *

After they say their goodbyes to Rua, the rest of the trip to Ciaran’s is uneventful. Another train ride—blessedly short and quiet—and then a night at an inn, where the two of them indulge in a bath and then David indulges in _Diarmuid_ , putting the bed to great and heavy use. In the morning as Diarmuid rests David goes to hire a driver to take them the rest of the way to Ciaran’s property.

It doesn’t look very different. The animals milling about are well fed, their coats lustrous and shiny, and the garden is flourishing. The paint on the house is fading a little, and perhaps some areas of the fence need to be repaired, but—well, that’s what he and David will be there for. To take care of the land, and to take care of Ciaran as well.

Diarmuid thanks the driver and rushes to the front porch, boots kicking up dirt, while his husband follows behind at a leisurely pace.

He barely has to knock on the door before his father wrenches it open, his hair and beard longer and grayer than the last time Diarmuid saw him but his grin just as wide and bright, his arms just as warm and comforting as always.

“Dia duit, mo buachaill,” Ciaran says, kissing Diarmuid’s cheek. “Oh, I’ve missed you. Here to stay, I hope?”

“Of course, Daddy,” Diarmuid says.

Ciaran beams, but his smile drops when he turns to David. “And you’re still here, I see.”

Diarmuid scolds, “Daddy!” but David merely shrugs and grunts, “Always.”

With a huff, Ciaran beckons them into the house. “I see you two can’t stay out of trouble. Got the paper when I went into town this morning. Take a look at that front page.”

Diarmuid peers at the newspaper. A special story from a reporter with the _Silverton Star_. Rua sure hadn’t wasted any time.

**_Vicious Criminals’ Robbery Attempt Thwarted By Vigilant, Devoted Husband_ **

_A pleasant, quiet train ride nearly became a nightmare for its passengers when a band of seasoned outlaws stopped the train in an attempt to commit armed robbery. This reporter says ‘nearly’ and ‘attempt’ because said outlaws would surely have made off with every item on each person, including my own pen and notebook, had it not been for one husband’s ferocious love._

The tale went on, only slightly embellished and accompanied by a very lovely artistic rendering of a man who was meant to be David—a bit more well-groomed and much less scarred, but still tall and broad and dark—guarding a slight, smaller figure—Diarmuid, obviously—in his seat, one hand pressed to his heart and the other reaching out for his husband with an expression of concern. “Ferocious love,” Diarmuid murmurs, feeling his face warm, “Goodness.”

His husband looks over his shoulder and frowns at the drawing. “You’re much prettier than that.”

“Oh, you charmer,” Diarmuid giggles. “But it’s not quite us, my love, remember? Rua had to take some artistic liberties to keep our anonymity.”

“I’m not sure how anonymous that’ll stay. I certainly figured it out quick enough,” Ciaran says.

“Well, you’re my _father_. You already know what we look like and what train we were taking.”

“And just how dutiful your husband is.”

David makes a noise of agreement as he pulls out a chair for Diarmuid. “Sit down and rest, sweetheart. And throw out that paper, if you’re done with it.”

Diarmuid clasps the newspaper to his chest. “No! I think I’ll clip the article out. I could start a little scrapbook. Besides, I _like_ the drawing. You look rather dashing, David. My big, ferocious husband.”

David leans down to press a kiss to his lips. “I’ll show you how ferocious I can be,” he growls, voice low and rumbly in the way that makes Diarmuid shiver.

Ciaran clears his throat. “No mauling my son at the table. I’m reminding you both now that this is a _Christian_ household.” He sets three plates of scrambled eggs and bacon on the table, along with a tray of freshly baked biscuits with butter and raspberry jam. “Now, Mister Preacher, lead us in grace before we tuck in.”

His husband grumbles, but Diarmuid rubs David’s thigh and mouths “ _later_ ,” which puts the cheer back onto his face.

Taking both David and his father’s hands, Diarmuid bows his head and says, “Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” says Ciaran.

David kisses his wrist. “Amen,” he murmurs, brushing Diarmuid’s hand against his beard.

The three of them eat and talk, the kitchen cozy and warm, the day sunny and bright, the newspaper carefully folded on the table.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Google Translate for all the Irish.
> 
> Deartháir, cad fear a phós tú - Brother, what a man you married.
> 
> Tá an t-ádh orm - I am lucky.
> 
> A thiarna déan trócaire! - Lord, have mercy!
> 
> Mo grá - My love
> 
> An bhfuil tú ceart go leor? - Are you alright?
> 
> Dia duit, mo buachaill - Hello, my boy.


End file.
